by K. C. Lannon
Despite the cool evening breeze, Iain felt sweat bloom on his skin.
His ears strained in the quiet, and his eyes strained in the darkness. He tensed, his heart starting to race, thinking for one fleeting, jolting moment that he’d heard that whistling again—
But of course he hadn’t. Even thinking he had, he realized, sounded crazy. All he’d heard was the occasional rustling of the trees and grasses in the wind and the rushing of blood in his ears.
“You’re just tired,” he told himself under his breath. “Don’t start losing it now. Just keep it together.”
He turned the radio over in his hand. It was a long shot, but maybe he could tune in to a local frequency to hear if there were any faery sightings in the area. It would at least make him feel like he was doing more than just sitting there.
There was only white noise for a moment as he flipped through the stations. Then a voice, laced with static—
“Your tracking shows you’re in old London. Is the air still choked with ash?”
Dad…
He must have been waiting for him to turn his radio on, that Iain would have to turn it on eventually. And he’d have known nightfall would be the time to do it.
Iain’s finger hovered over the Talk button, but he didn’t answer yet. He knew his father wasn’t finished.
“It’s a sore sight, isn’t it? I imagine the photographs of the wreckage do not do the damage justice. It is something you have to see for yourself to understand.” Alan continued, each word deliberate and slow. “That is all faeries know how to do—destroy. That’s all their magic is capable of.”
Silence. The static faded out.
Iain pressed the Talk button. “I’m not in old London anymore. It wasn’t safe,” he said. “I threw the tracker away.”
There was a long pause as Iain released the button. He felt oddly composed as he waited for a response.
“It isn’t safe anywhere now,” Dad said. “It’s not safe for James to be out of the city. You should come home, Iain.”
Home…
The word filled him with warmth and longing and sensory memories. Iain felt the truth of his father’s statement in his bones. It served to validate his fear that he was leading James away from safety for one moment, but he pushed back against it. He brushed his fear aside.
Neo-London wouldn’t be the same anymore. The city was overtaken by martial law—there would be stricter curfews, and there was a possibility of arrests and sentencing without a trial. He recalled what the city streets were like as he’d left it last—empty with a frightful silence. Humans and faeries alike were afraid.
Home wouldn’t be the same. Nothing would be how it was after what Philip had told him, after what Mum’s letters said, after Deirdre was made a scapegoat.
“I can’t do that,” Iain said.
A pause.
“This is desertion, Iain.” The phrase struck him like a fist, winding him. Shame burned him like a brand—a child’s shame. “The soldier I know would never even consider disobeying orders. I thought you wanted to help this country.”
“I do.” He hissed. “I still do.”
“What is this really about?” His father’s voice was curious now, less biting. “You can’t be loyal to Philip Prance. Whatever he told you is a lie forged to break trust between us.”
Iain knew that was not true. He regained clarity as a spark of hot anger flared in his chest at the mention of Philip, at the false insinuation. He regained his resolve. “Philip wasn’t a liar.”
His father scoffed. “Philip must have known how to manipulate you. But he was not your blood, and he was not your family.”
Iain said nothing.
“Why did your brother leave?” Dad asked, making him sit up straighter in surprise.
“He wanted to travel. To find Mum.”
Now Dad was surprised. As Iain released the Talk button, first there was a deep silence. Then he heard only static at first as his father pushed to speak—the faint sound of his breathing for a long moment, the clink of something that must have been a glass or a tea mug set down.
“Well… then you’ve heard from her?”
“Not directly, but we have a lead.”
“I see.” The distance between them that had been a mere illusion just minutes before was now apparent. His father sounded far from him, his voice faint and flat. “If you want to take leave from the Iron Wardens, if you want to travel with your brother, I could allow it. I could… pardon you. You’ll notice that I have not reported your insubordination. I do not think I could report you even if I had to.”
Iain stared at the radio. He wanted to believe that was true so badly…
“All you have to do is follow your orders like the Iron Warden I know you can be, Iain. All you have to do is bring that faery traitor to me.”
And there’s the catch…
His knuckles blanched as he gripped the radio. “As an Iron Warden,” he ground out, “isn’t it my job to protect the civilians of Neo-London? That’s what I’m doing. Deirdre is an innocent.”
“Once again, it seems your lack of decent judgment will be your downfall. Perhaps Boyd was correct…”
Iain went blank; as far as he was concerned, his father was speaking about someone else instead of him.
“She’s a faery, Iain. They are all heartless and inhuman. Seelie, Unseelie—none of those petty, tedious details mean anything beyond strategy in war. She will behave herself until she’s done toying with you and your brother—until she gets bored.”
He refused to believe that.
“Even if she was not part of the attack,” General Callaghan continued, “and by some happenstance was wrongly placed at the scene by a dozen witnesses, she is still most likely to be Unseelie and loyal to the Winter Court.”
Hearing his father voice all his concerns might have validated his paranoia in the past, but now it served the opposite function, which was clearly not his father’s intention.
For the first time, Iain considered the possibility that everything his father had taught him about faeries might have been a lie or just a bias. He reminded himself to ask James more about what he’d learned from those banned books sometime.
“I only ask that you think about this thoroughly, Iain. If you cannot do what is best for your country, then at least think about what is best for your brother.”
With that, his father’s voice cut out, and he shut off their connection.
There was no sleeping for Iain after that conversation even if he hadn’t intended to take the full night watch already. So he set down his radio after flipping through more frequencies and finding no reports or sightings near their area and tried to make himself comfortable. He spent the rest of the night staring into the dark, remembering days spent at the park playing and thinking fondly of tales his mother had told him.
Chapter Three
Deirdre woke before the sun rose and, for the first time in a while, felt completely refreshed as the scent of early-morning dew greeted her. It was too early to wake James, so she looked around for Iain. At first he was nowhere in sight; she hastily scrambled to her feet, scanning the area, wildly wondering if he had gone off to report her to the army and was about to burst through the trees with tanks in tow.
Okay, maybe the tanks are kind of unrealistic…
But she soon spotted him seated at the base of a nearby tree, his chin on his chest as if he was asleep. Chiding herself for jumping to conclusions, she began to stretch, hoping to push out both her panic and her stiffness.
The dew was quite heavy, and since they were slightly low on water, she took out a handkerchief that she had messily embroidered a couple of years ago from her pack. As she wandered around the area, she let it soak up the beads of water from high grasses and bushes, wringing the moisture out and drinking it when the cloth was soaked. Along the way, she spotted several horse mushrooms. Her stomach grumbled as memories surfaced of past times she’d collected and cooked them while on trips w
ith the orphanage Sisters and girls.
Within just ten minutes, she’d carefully examined and collected the best-looking ones in the area, returning to the campsite. She glanced over to see Iain apparently still asleep.
As quickly and quietly as she could, she got kindling and began to start a fire, feeling a bit guilty as she did so.
But it isn’t night anymore, and he just said to not light a fire at night. She scowled at her flint as she struck sparks into the kindling. And James and I had a fire the other night, but we didn’t have any faery problems! And I never had any problems while camping either, and neither did anyone else I knew back in the town by the orphanage. Iain might be a soldier, but he’s still a city boy!
She glanced over her shoulder at Iain again, making sure he was still asleep, before turning back to nursing the new flames into a full fire.
After wiping down and cleaning the mushrooms, she found thin, sturdy twigs, got them as damp as possible, skewered the mushrooms, and set them close to the fire. As they cooked, she leaned forward and inhaled the earthy, slightly pungent scent.
This will be much better than James’s food!
“How are they doing?”
Deirdre let out a shout of alarm and spun around, fists raised, ready to fight. Iain took a step back behind her, eyes widened, hands raised, open in a placating gesture.
At the same time, James jerked up from sleep with a slurred, “Whazzgoin’ on?”
“You startled me!” Deirdre exclaimed, her hand on her heart. “You and your brother are too quiet!”
“What’s wrong?” James repeated, rubbing his eyes and slumping over.
“Nothing,” Iain answered him before looking back to Deirdre. “Are these—?”
“Well, I had to cook them!” She interrupted him, gesturing to the fire. “They taste much better that way. And you didn’t say anything about not lighting a fire in the morning!”
“Are those mushrooms?” James asked, sitting up a little straighter, wincing from stiffness. “What kind?”
“Horse mushrooms.” She looked at Iain as he sat down in front of the fire and continued, “They’re edible, I promise. I’ve had them a lot of times.”
“Yeah—” Iain started to reply but broke off with a yawn. He rubbed his eyes several times, as if there was something in them, and when he stopped, Deirdre noticed heavy bags under his eyes.
Too bad we don’t have tea, she thought as she sat back down, the fire between the two of them.
Deirdre insisted on trying the mushrooms first, just in case anything was wrong with them. But nothing seemed amiss, and Deirdre and Iain breakfasted in silence while James, after a few bites, started to ramble about the different types of edible fungi in England.
Iain ate slowly and was still finishing even as she and James began to pack their things up. He went back toward the tree he had been seated under and disappeared behind it; Deirdre assumed he had just left something. But as she began to kick dirt on the fire and put it out, she heard the distant but unmistakable sound of someone retching.
Her head snapped to James, but he was too busy reorganizing things in his bag to notice. She turned and hurried over to the tree, rounding it to find Iain leaning over, looking pale and slightly shaken as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Are you okay? Do you want any water?” Instinctively she reached over to lightly stroke his back, something sick girls back at the orphanage often found comforting when they were ill. But she stopped herself halfway, awkwardly drawing her hand back.
He shook his head and waved her away.
But she persisted, asking, “Do you have a cold? Or are you—” Her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth. “The mushrooms! They were bad, weren’t they?”
Iain muttered something in reply, but she turned and ran around the tree and back over to James, shouting, “James, the mushrooms! How do you feel? Do you feel sick?”
He just looked up at her, mouth open. “What’s going on?”
“Iain threw up—I think some of the mushrooms were bad. How do you feel?”
Frowning, he said, “The mushrooms were fine.”
“So you don’t feel sick?”
“No.” James abruptly put down his pack, heading over toward Iain’s. “Let me see if he has any pills in here or whatever.”
Deirdre let out a small sigh of relief—anything was better than her accidentally serving them all poisonous mushrooms. As James began to rummage through Iain’s pack, practically shoving his head into it, she finished putting out the fire, making sure every last spark was out.
James held the pack up to his face, looking inside, sniffing. Then he tossed it down and zipped and buttoned it closed as it was before.
“Dammit,” he muttered, so low she barely heard him.
“No need to use language like that,” she scolded automatically. “Didn’t you find anything?”
He looked up at her, licking his lips, considering for a moment before scooting closer to her and whispering, “I could smell it. He had Pan in that bag.”
Deirdre blinked for a few moments, eventually coming up with, “Isn’t that the fruit drug that makes you really sick?”
James nodded, shooting a furious glare at the tree Iain was still behind. “That’s why he got sick. He must have had some.”
“This morning?”
He waved his hand impatiently. “This morning, last night, who knows? Maybe both.”
Deirdre tilted her head, mulling over the idea, brow furrowed. “Are you sure? Maybe you smell something else.” James was already shaking his head, but she continued, “I can’t see him doing anything like that. I mean, he’s a soldier! He’d know better.”
“It’s not a matter of knowing or not…” James hesitated, then continued in a lower voice, “A while ago, he got addicted—I think it was because of Elaine—and it was just… a really awful time.”
“Elaine?” Deirdre looked up, recalling the shifty-eyed, thin blond woman she’d met once in Neo-London. James had mentioned that she dealt in drugs back then but not any connection like this between her and Iain.
“Yeah. They were close, I guess.”
“But—but why would he use Pan?”
James shrugged. “He was looking after Dad and me all the time. I guess he got tired of it and wanted to forget about us—that’s what Pan does to you.”
“You ready?”
They both looked to see Iain slowly walking toward them, standing up straight but clearly with some effort.
James ignored him, sitting back by his own pack and resuming his reorganizing of its contents. Deirdre waited for James to say something about the Pan, but he stayed silent, apparently absorbed in refolding a pair of socks.
“We should be moving,” Iain prompted as he neared, shouldering his own pack. He looked at Deirdre. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” She hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want any water?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine, really, but… thanks.”
Biting her lip, she glanced at James, willing for him to speak up; when he didn’t, she instead pressed, “You don’t look so good.”
Iain shrugged. “Just didn’t sleep much. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
I don’t need to worry that he might be taking some sort of drug fruit? Seriously? She turned and grabbed her backpack, double-checking everything was zipped up before slipping it on. But if what James said is true, then he doesn’t have any more of it. But I can’t believe he’d ever eat it! I mean, I thought that he definitely cared about James, for sure. But he took Pan anyway, to escape from him? It doesn’t add up!
As they began to walk, James dragging his feet, Deirdre stayed behind Iain, glaring at him. I don’t know what to think—I don’t understand him. What’s going on in his head?
They walked mostly in silence all that morning, making slow progress and taking more five-minute breaks than they did yesterday. They stopped for a late lunch near a wide, deep,
fast-running river, one of the new ones that had been carved into the land by faery activity after the bombing. And like all the new ones, it was clear and teeming with fish.
James was content with just eating packaged food again, but Deirdre pestered and wheedled him until he agreed to at least go and look in the river with her for fish.
“It’s not like we can catch them,” he whined as they walked over. “We don’t have any rods or bait or—”
“Nothing is impossible, James.” She beamed at him over her shoulder. “I’ve caught one or two with just a good blow with a rock!”
He didn’t reply except to mumble a few syllables; Deirdre got the feeling he didn’t believe her, but that just made her keener to prove him wrong. And get a fresh lunch, of course.
The river had several still areas that were perfect for waiting for the right prey; however, it took time, as always. She set her sights on and lost several fish. Just when Iain came over from the campsite, telling them to hurry, she finally managed to wallop a large pike on the head.
Water splashing, she pulled it out immediately; it was stunned but still alive.
“This is great!” She smiled widely at James, who was staring at the live fish with a mix of surprise and trepidation. “Now let’s cook it!”
He looked aghast. “Aren’t you going to kill it first?”
“No need. It’ll die soon enough. And the fresher, the better.”
He didn’t reply but locked eyes with the fish, suddenly looking a bit green.
“Do you like him, James?” Deirdre held the fish out toward him a bit, only for James to step back.
“I-I think I’ll stick with biscuits.”
“But he likes you!” She jerked the fish out toward him; it chose that moment to start wriggling, gasping, showing off its sharp teeth.
He backed away farther. “Don’t get it near me!”
Deirdre followed right after him, holding the fish out, demanding with a grin, “Why don’t you like him, James? Look at those big eyes! He wants to be your friend! Don’t ignore your friend!”
“That fish is not my friend!”
“But he loves you!”